“regulator,” “Union League,” “Ku Klux Klan,” and the like.  The resulting confusion, political, social, and economic, did not completely amount to the destruction of a civilization, for underneath it all the old sleepy ante-bellum South still maintained its existence almost unchanged.  The two most conspicuous and contrasting figures were the Confederate veteran walking around in a sleeveless coat and the sharp-featured New England school mar’m, armed with that spelling book which was overnight to change the African from a genial barbarian into an intelligent and conscientious social unit; but more persistent than these forces was that old dreamy, “unprogressive” Southland—­the same country that Page himself described in an article on “An Old Southern Borough” which, as a young man, he contributed to the Atlantic Monthly.  It was still the country where the “old-fashioned gentleman” was the controlling social influence, where a knowledge of Latin and Greek still made its possessor a person of consideration, where Emerson was a “Yankee philosopher” and therefore not important, where Shakespeare and Milton were looked upon almost as contemporary authors, where the Church and politics and the matrimonial history of friends and relatives formed the staple of conversation, and where a strong prejudice still existed against anything that resembled popular education.  In the absence of more substantial employment, stump speaking, especially eloquent in praise of the South and its achievements in war, had become the leading industry.

“Wat” Page—­he is still known by this name in his old home—­was a tall, rangy, curly-headed boy, with brown hair and brown eyes, fond of fishing and hunting, not especially robust, but conspicuously alert and vital.  Such of his old playmates as survive recall chiefly his keenness of observation, his contagious laughter, his devotion to reading and to talk.  He was also given to taking long walks in the woods, frequently with the solitary companionship of a book.  Indeed, his extremely efficient family regarded him as a dreamer and were not entirely clear as to what purpose he was destined to serve in a community which, above all, demanded practical men.  Such elementary schools as North Carolina possessed had vanished in the war; the prevailing custom was for the better-conditioned families to join forces and engage a teacher for their assembled children.  It was in such a primary school in Cary that Page learned the elementary branches, though his mother herself taught him to read and write.  The boy showed such aptitude in his studies that his mother began to hope, though in no aggressive fashion, that he might some day become a Methodist clergyman; she had given him his middle name, “Hines,” in honour of her favourite preacher—­a kinsman.  At the age of twelve Page was transferred to the Bingham School, then located at Mcbane.  This was the Eton of North Carolina, from both a social and an educational standpoint.  It was a military school;